


Crash

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural, True Blood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal





	Crash

Sam knows the guy isn’t human. There’s a smoothness to him, the way he moves that lets Sam see it now. He’s used to spotting these things. The clues that he always put down to gut instinct before his little run in with his soulless self intellectualised the whole process added up to observation plus knowledge and experience and a healthy dose of suspicion.

Dean hated the heat of Louisiana. He claimed it was because he felt like he was swimming through the air and had to search for rust spots on guns and the car every day. Sam knew it was because Dean liked pine trees and open roads and empty horizons and these swamps and trees made him feel claustrophobic, like he couldn’t see what was ahead or behind him. Sam liked that. It made him feel hidden.

Some slutty waitress had taken up all of Dean’s attention and Sam was done waiting for her to bring him a drink. The place was quiet enough that he could stroll to the bar, silently ask for another one and get a roll of the eyes from the bartender before a fresh beer on a napkin was sweating in front of him.

The ceiling fans seem lazy in the heat.

Ice air followed the stranger in, like he was untouched by weather and warmth. Untouched by warmth was probably true, Sam thinks, taking in the sculpted cheekbones, the cool blonde hair, the eyes that saw through everything up to, and including, him. The pastel baby blue wool sweater should have been ridiculous and completely out of place. Instead Sam had to turn back to his beer, to the bar, to hide the way his jeans bulged at the idea of peeling this guy out of it.

Sam laughed in his head at the idea of calling this guy a stranger when the woman behind the bar placed both hands flat on it and flared her nostrils. He was the stranger here, him and Dean, passing through and on and keeping going. This guy was known.

“She’s not here,” the bartender snapped. She didn’t make a move to grab a drink, or to smile, frown, or to do any of the usual human things that soften harsh words. Instead she levelled the guy with a flat stare.

The guy didn’t take offense as far as Sam could see from the corner of his eye. There was no stiffening of the shoulders or step backward. Instead the guy moved fluidly, inhumanly, just a shade too quickly. He leaned on the bar next to Sam. The weight of his gaze was heavy on his skin. Sam could feel him watching the sweat run down his neck into the dark neck of his shirt made darker by the warm weather. He was in one layer tonight, too damn hot to bother with shirts and layers and all the usual protective clothing. He could feel the guy eyeing his arm, the near invisible network of tiny knife scars that faded to nothingness. Following the sweat down.

Sam takes a swallow of his beer. He shouldn’t do this, but he knows exactly what the flex of his muscles looked like as he lifted the bottle, the way his hair shook back from his face, the way his throat looked as he swallowed. He’d used this trick a dozen times to seal the deal, to get the interested party to take the first step. It felt strange in some ways to be so coolly cynical about it now that he was back to being himself.

The moment is broken by Dean, who lands in between them, drunk and glowing. Sam knows what the raised eyebrow, the cocked thumb are asking and nods, Dean grinning even wider and slapping a hand on his shoulder at the response.

“Attaboy, Sammy.”

Sam shakes his head as his brother heads out with one arm around the waitress. Sam is too old for the whole game suddenly. He finishes the beer without any flourishes, without giving in to the urge to let his eyes slide left where the bartender still has her hands on the bar, as if lifting them would give this man entry into somewhere he really shouldn’t be. She reluctantly moves when he pulls out his wallet and rings up the check.

 

For all that he didn’t see him leave, the guy is waiting for Sam when he steps outside. He’s leaning up against the Impala, as if he knew that was Sam’s destination. It makes Sam stutter to a halt, keys dangling loose.

“Hello.” The innocuous greeting is paired with a slow look up and down that makes Sam’s skin burn.

“Hey.” Sam suddenly is tired and the heat is getting to him, late as it is. He knows he’ll sleep poorly tonight.

“Eric.” The guy points a finger at himself, like he had been expecting Sam to act like a person, like someone with manners. Sam stares at him. Then he huffs out a sigh.

“Sam. Sam Winchester.” Eric’s mouth quirks up. Sam keeps his eyes level. “That was my brother Dean earlier.”

“Ah,” Eric lets out. Sam knows then and there that this guy knows all about him and Dean. His expression of bored interest doesn’t change, not to fear or to hunger or to challenge or any of the things Sam was expecting. Instead Eric moved, just a touch too quickly and gracefully, to stand in front of Sam. They were eye to eye, something Sam realised with a sudden start. It wasn’t that often he met someone as tall as him. He was still bulkier, heavier, wider across the shoulders.

Sam realised halfway through his assessment of Eric that he’d shifted from thinking about him as a threat to thinking about him as a partner for the night again. He let his eyes linger on Eric’s lips before meeting his eyes again.

A spark of interest, something dark and hungry and Sam was ready to go. “My brother won’t be in the motel room.”

 

He’s slammed against the door when he gets it shut behind him, Eric’s mouth busy licking up the salt on his neck. Sam lets out a soft groan – Eric’s lips are cool and nearly ice cold. Then he realises what he’s feeling.

“You’re a vampire.” Sam takes stock of where the weapons duffel is by the far wall. He’s got a knife tucked into his jeans but it’ll probably take something bigger. Eric presses into him, cool and hard.

“If I promise not to bite, do you promise not to kill me, Sam?” The voice is amused and collected.

Sam panics for a moment, hard thudding in his chest as Eric does nothing but stand in front of him and hold his shoulders against the door. He should be ashamed to admit that his cock does not seem to think it’s in danger. Instead his hips jerk forward of their own accord.

Eric leaves him standing there, speechless, turned on and confused. He strips off the soft sweater, revealing anything but soft muscles, sharp angles mimicking the perfect cut of his cheekbones. Sam struggles to breathe as his eyes drop past an unmoving ribcage to see the sharp cut of Eric’s hips trailing into the waistband of his dress pants. Eric’s hands pause at the narrow belt. “Sam?” The word is drawled out, low, teasing and promising.

There’s no way this vampire is going to dictate how this goes. Sam pushes himself up off the door and smashes his mouth in Eric’s. Eric is happy to let Sam have his way for a few moments, long enough for him to unbuckle his pants and kick them off. Then Sam is being backed across the floor, hands lifting his t-shirt and manoeuvring him onto the bed. The burn starts in his skin as Eric’s too cool lips map his bare skin, close and tug around a nipple before making their way back to his mouth.

“You ever fucked a vampire, Sam?” Eric asked, voice as controlled as before. Sam wanted to make this control crash and burn around Eric’s ears.

“Fucked a werewolf,” Sam replied, his own mouth busy licking up and down Eric’s neck now. “A demon. Collecting the set, I guess.” He was surprised how smoothly he managed to get the words out. He worried some of Eric’s pale skin into his mouth, relishing the sudden low moan that brought from Eric. There were teeth marks when he looked.

Sam had enough of being on the bottom suddenly. He twisted his legs around Eric and spun them, heavy. No grace in his movements. Eric seemed happy to go, lying back as Sam reared up and unfastened his own pants, taking his time over the button fly. He had to stand up to kick off his jeans, sliding his underwear off at the same time. He spends the time looking at Eric spread out naked and poised, one long leg slightly bent at the knee and one hand skimming over a hard cock, pink against the ivory of his skin. There was a moment when Sam was smug that he was longer and thicker. Then he was crawling over Eric, letting him tangle long fingers in his hair and draw him into another kiss.

It was an odd battle for dominance. Sam would thrust his tongue, his hips, his hands against Eric, who would give before pushing back just enough to let Sam know that he was completely in control. That fired up Sam’s blood, making him want to push even more, see how far Eric could go, how much he could take. Their kisses became rougher. Sam was slamming his hips against Eric’s, forcing their cocks together even harder. Even when he fucked around with guys, Sam knew he held back. He knew his own strength. And Eric could handle every bit of it and take more.

Their legs were wrapped together, the sensation of toes against his at the same time he was kissing someone a new one for Sam. He raised up, broke the kiss to stroke his hand over Eric’s chest, thumbing hard at a brown nipple on his way down. His hand was huge, rough and coarsely brown against the silk of Eric’s skin. Sam was panting now, sweat curling the hair at his temples, droplets splashing onto Eric’s untouched skin. His hair was disordered by Sam’s hands at least, evidence that Sam had been there. He wanted to leave marks all over Eric’s perfect body.

Sam dropped his mouth to bite at the curve of Eric’s collarbone, at the meat of his pectoral muscle. He worked the nub of his nibble like candy between his teeth. And Eric took it, rose into it, and his eyes gleamed.

Eric obviously seemed unwilling to let Sam have all the fun. There was another one of those too fast too hard movements and Sam found himself falling face first onto the pillow. Eric was mouthing at his neck, drinking the sweat pooled there before licking his way down Sam’s back. Sam wanted to protest, raise himself up and make Eric take it like before. But Eric’s hand was firm on his hip, on the back of his head.

“My turn.” That urbane infuriating voice bit out the words, slightly less in control. Sam settles then, spreading his thighs for Eric to find his way between them. The roughness of the sheets on his cock is a contrast to the velvet coolness of Eric’s skin and Sam can’t quite bite back a hiss. Everything is becoming too much: the hot damp air, the harsh cotton sheets, the way Eric’s cool fingers and mouth seem intent on mapping his skin, drawing every bead of sweat away only for three to take its place, hydra like.

Then Eric is spreading his ass wide and licking and Sam knows he should be grossed out. He’s never had this done to him, only seen it in porn, and even then he wasn’t too sure about it. But Eric seems to revel in the taste, tongue worming its way up and down the crease, circling and pushing. Sam shifts on the bed, wanting to draw his knees up. He knows then and there that Eric has won, that he has control. The fact that Sam wants to offer his ass up like a twinky cock slut has nothing to do with it, not really. He knows now that Eric could tear him apart with just his little finger.

The mouth shifts from his ass, leaving him feeling wet and open and then Eric is beside his ear, murmuring encouragement as Sam uses the freedom to lift up and spread his knees wide. He should insist on lube, he knows. Eric was still long and hard, curving ever so slightly to the left. But the way the head of his cock feels rubbing against Sam’s hole is enough to tempt him into leaning back, rising up and wanting.

Eric lets out a grunt as he pushes in, a prosaically human sound that makes Sam smile a little. Vampires are not so different perhaps. It burns as he knew it would, the stretch, and he has to bring his hand back to hold Eric’s sharp hip, to halt him while Sam screws his face into the pillow and adjusts to the sudden feeling of too much and too full. He’s half surprised when Eric stops, rubbing his finger around where they are joined. The feeling of that smooth cool fingertip nearly has Sam shooting hard. He shudders, relaxes and feels Eric slide all the way in.

Every nerve in his body is scraped raw when Eric thrusts properly for the first time. He’s not holding back, taking Sam hard and fast and implacable. It’s nearly too much, especially when Eric angles his hips to nail Sam’s prostate. The relentless pressure sends electricity up and down his spine. He’s not going to last, not at all.

Then Eric is back at his ear, serpent in the garden and all. “If I bite you, if I drink from you, you can go all night.”

Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t trust his voice, not when Eric doesn’t halt the pistoning of his hips.

“You could bite down on me hard, drink some back.” Eric sounds smug now. “Bet you’ve missed how that blood made you feel.”

Sam wants the voice to stop now. He wants the voice to stop and he wants to go back to feeling like he’s going to come apart at the seams with pleasure rather than experiencing this sick churning in his stomach. Even without his soul, he’d never felt the urge for blood and power. He shakes his head again, feeling his body tense and harden.

Eric’s hand working over his cock made him relax enough to enjoy the fucking again. “Maybe not,” softly whispered into his hair and a soft, cool kiss at the nape of his neck calmed him further. Without warning, his orgasm slammed through him, wiping out everything in a white unexpected flash.

 

Sam knows his clothes are spread all over the floor in that unmistakable way that says hurried undressing when Dean strolls back in at dawn, coffee cups balanced above a greasy paper bag. When Sam shifts and the sheet falls down to reveal the spectacular spread of hickeys he knows decorate his torso like flashing neon signs, Dean’s eyebrows try to meet his hairline. But Dean says nothing. Sure, he pointedly kicks Sam’s tangled jeans and underwear out of his way, but he doesn’t say anything.

He whistles as he dumps the coffee on the tiny table and heads for the shower. Sam’s own shower can wait.


End file.
